Hindu Medicine c5.s1: I
Hindu Medicine c5.s1
- Language
- English
I
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I happened to make Zimmer's acquaintance in the early summer of 1924, an especially happy and important phase of his life: he was just beginning to come into his own. His earlier biography can be briefly told. Born in Greifswald in 1890, he attended school there and in Berlin; from 1909 until 1913 he studied at the University of Berlin. After having taken his degree in 1913, he underwent his one-year military training and stayed on in the army throughout the first World War. Discharged in December 1918, he resumed his work and became Privatdozent in Greifswald in 1920. In 1922 he moved to Heidelberg. Here at last he was able to carry out the decision which he had made on his return from the war—"free as a guest from the other world"—namely, to abandon completely the traditional pattern of interpretation that he had followed, however reluctantly, in his youth and to give expression to his own vision of India. In 1924 his first book was in print and he was working
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P R E F A C E
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on the second.¹ At the university he lectured on Hindu religion.
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¹ Karman, *Ein buddhistischer Legendenkranz*, 1925; *Kunstform und Yoga im indischen Kultbild*, 1926. For a more detailed account of Zimmer's life, cf. his *Biographical Remarks* in *Two Papers* by Henry R. Zimmer, 1944 (Van Vechten Press, Metuchen).
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It was in this lecture course that I saw Zimmer for the first time, and I shall never forget the impression which he then made upon me. A tall man, rather heavily built, his broad shoulders somewhat uneven, he stood before the few students in his characteristic attitude: his body erect, his massive head slightly tilted to the left. His face, —very unusual in its contour, its features stern rather than gentle,—showed no emotion. His eyes, deep-set under thick brows, were fixed upon his manuscript—he was reading the story of Dharmarutschi which tells of the cycle of incarnations, of the path followed by the Enlightened One and of that followed by the uninitiated. Only occasionally did Zimmer glance at us. If he saw us at all, if he paid any attention to our presence, it was in order to make sure that we were following him into that realm into which he himself was transposed. For his outward calm was apparently that of the body
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PREFACE
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which stays here while the spirit is far away. His voice, somewhat harsh and unmelodious, did not change much, nor did the rhythm and the tempo of his speech vary. Every word resounded the monotony and simplicity inherent in sacred prose. And behind the facts retold there was the reality of the world that lies beyond.
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Having been introduced to Zimmer by a mutual friend after one of the lectures, I welcomed every opportunity to talk to him. Such discussions often started in one of the narrow streets of Heidelberg or on the beautiful old bridge crossing the Neckar. He would come along walking swiftly, in very unconventional clothes—unconventional, that is, for a German professor: slacks, sport shirt with open collar, no tie, no jacket—carrying under one arm a number of books, under the other the food he had bought to prepare his meals. "I just found," or "I just read,"—thus the conversation would begin, and often it would not end until an hour, or hours, had passed, whether we remained standing where we were or walked on to his house, far out in the Neckar valley, and there sat down in his small study, a modest room, furnished with a few books and a relief of the Buddha of Gandhara.
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In discourse Zimmer excelled; here all the facets of his rich nature shone forth brightly. He always spoke about essential things, or rather whatever he touched upon became essential. Although he abounded in witticisms and sarcasms, although he was a brilliant raconteur, sparkling and overflowing with ideas, he was fundamentally serious, even grave. To him nothing was trifling, everything was part of the whole. Talking rapidly, as if possessed by his subject, as if driven on by a demon, he delighted in joining the nearest up with the farthest, in pointing out historical parallels, in establishing crossline combinations. The characterization which a great Sanskrit scholar once applied to Hindu philosophers—a characterization that Zimmer found most appropriate—might be applied to him also, perhaps with a slightly different meaning: he philosophized "in die Quere," latitudinally, as it were.² And he did so with a breadth of knowledge that was astounding. German, French, English poetry and prose, classical literature, art of the various periods, the story of man's highest endeavors and of his most ridiculous foibles—all
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² Cf. Ewiges Indien, Leitmotive indischen Daseins, 1930, pp. 111; 170 f. (note 42).
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this was ever-present to his mind which was associative rather than deductive and penetrated into the very core of things by intuiting rather than by computing them.
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This indeed was Zimmer's greatest gift: that he was able to divine the truth with his inner eye, a faculty that, in his opinion, was no merit, nor even an advantage. On the contrary, much as he hated shallow dialectics, he had an almost childlike admiration for those who were good at reasoning, at presenting conclusions from a well ordered argument. "Ich kann nicht denken," I am incapable of thinking, he used to say with sincere regret. But visionary as was his approach to any topic, it was at the same time distinct, sharp, and clear-cut. Moreover, his thought tended to become concrete, to take on flesh and blood. One day we walked along the Neckar, while he was trying to explain to me the Hindu attitude toward death. "To die—that means to cross *this* river in a boat and then to look back from over there to the eddy here." He would not use the old simile *in abstracto*; it was infused into the reality of the surrounding world. The water we saw became the dividing line
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between the two realms of existence.³ Even his retelling of stories, fired as it was by fantasy, the fantasy of the poet, reflected a fantastic realism, as Dostoevski called the fantasy of Poe, a writer of whom Zimmer was very fond.
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³ Compare *Ewiges Indien*, pp. 131 ff.
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Endowed with such a personality, Zimmer could not fail to impress people. In whatever circles he moved, he assumed a dominating rôle. Everybody was likely to share the experience of the Oxford classicist, C. M. Bowra, who met Zimmer in 1938: even if ordinarily he felt some reluctance in applying the word " genius " to any man of learning, in Zimmer's case he felt it was the only word that was appropriate.⁴ It was to Zimmer's credit—and it constituted part of his charm—that he remained an unspoiled genius. Sure as he was of himself, he was not conceited. He was aware of the dangers inherent in his make-up, of his inclination to go to extremes. His gratitude toward those who reminded him of his better self was unbounded. Genuine praise of others, the recognition of their
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⁴ *The Review of Religion*, 1943, p. 18. Incidentally, in this journal (pp. 14-19) the reader will find short memorials by David Friedman, Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, and Herbert Steiner.
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achievements as compared with his own, were a matter of course with him. Although he could be very harsh in his judgment of people, in condemning what he loathed, he was always willing and eager to acknowledge merit. At heart he was kind, and behind a certain outward roughness which could sometimes be dismaying there was a great sensitiveness and delicacy of feeling.
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For four years I had the good fortune of living in the same town with Zimmer, and of staying at the same university. After that time—between 1928 and 1933—I saw him but rarely, on his occasional trips to Berlin or whenever I returned to Heidelberg for a visit. At such meetings everything was as it had been before; he was a faithful friend; whether one saw him regularly or not, his attachment to one did not change. His work in these years grew steadily. More settled and a trifle less unconventional since he had married—we used to say jokingly that he was now a tamed bear, but a bear nevertheless—he published book after book, article after article. His insight into Hindu art, philosophy, religion, poetry, deepened. The secret of India was captured in a language quite his own, and through his interpretation a past and a present
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that are so foreign to the Western mind began to be understandable to experts and laymen alike. As a lecturer, too, he became more and more popular. It was astonishing to see how large crowds, men and women of all walks of life, would listen to him, spellbound and enchanted, as were his students.
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Besides, Zimmer gradually transcended the boundaries of Sanskrit scholarship. After the death of Hugo von Hofmannsthal, the father of his wife, he became the co-editor of the legacy of the great poet. This undertaking he tackled not only with his usual zeal and unselfishness, but also with the enthusiasm of the connoisseur of literature. In 1932 he became acquainted with C. G. Jung and forthwith was drawn into the magic circle of the Jung movement. His own studies had made him aware of the psychological implications of mythology. The psychologist’s research was a welcome confirmation and clarification of the results of the Sanskritist. An exchange of ideas ensued, a give and take by which both profited.⁵ Some of Zimmer’s friends—and I was one of them—regretted these diversions of his activity, valuable as they
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⁵ For Zimmer’s relation to Jung, cf. *Two Papers*, pp. 21 f. Jung himself speaks about his friendship with Zimmer in the introduction to Zimmer’s book *Shri Ramana* (1944).
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were in themselves. We wished that he would devote himself entirely to his own field in which he could make a unique contribution. But Zimmer's overflowing energy, his expansiveness, could not contain themselves within the narrow limits of a specialty or of academic life. Not only did he think " latitudinally "; he also had to live in this way.
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After I left Germany in 1933, I heard from Zimmer at regular intervals. Although he was oppressed by the feeling that the world was closing in on him, and although he was irreconcilably opposed to the current political development, he continued to stay in Heidelberg. It was his sense of duty that made him remain at his post as long as humanly possible, and that also enabled him to go on with his research. Reprints and books came which showed that he was still the same. In 1938 he decided at last to leave Germany. After one year's residence in England, he came to this country and, shortly after his arrival, to Baltimore to deliver the Noguchi Lectures. When I saw him again, I found that he had grown much older than time warranted. The strain of his recent experiences was quite noticeable. He was both tired and
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restless. But he was also happy to be free again and he looked forward with confidence to the experiment of fitting himself into a new life. One day he came to my house and we talked in peace and quiet, from early morning until afternoon. He spoke of Heidelberg under the Nazi regime: even the beauty of the landscape had lost its charm and glamor through the impact of the deeds of men. He told me about his children with whom he was reading the sagas of classical antiquity and some of the works of Sophocles. He commented on English literature of which he had an even more intimate grasp now that he was living in the Anglo-Saxon world. He dwelt on his latest interests: the symbolism of the figures depicted on playing-cards and that of the chessmen. To him, the king on the chess board—this monarch who is so entirely dependent on his subordinates for his defense and rarely capable of taking a piece by himself—was the exact copy of the Hindu king who in spite of all his might is more endangered than all his subjects and must always work through his courtiers.⁶ Listening to all this and much more
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⁶ *Indische Sphären*, 1935, p. 43 (*Schriften der Corona*, XII); cf. also *The Polish Bulletin of Oriental Studies*, I, 1937, pp. 90 ff.
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than I can recount here, I forgot how many years had passed, how many changes had taken place; I only felt the old fascination of his personality, the importance of the spiritual quest to which Zimmer was devoted.
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Our meeting in 1940 was to be our last. From time to time letters came, discussing the revision of the lectures, talking about New York. As I learned also from others, Zimmer adjusted himself quickly, despite the many odds he had to overcome. At first he lectured before various private groups, but finally he found a position at Columbia University. Of his reaction to the new surroundings I need not write; he has himself described them in a short paper.⁷ He was impressed by the cheerfulness of America, the teeming life of towns and factories, but also by an element of monotony in the form of human existence here as compared to Europe. He was overwhelmed by the vastness of this continent, by the emptiness and desolation of its deserts. The grandeur of its nature appeared to him imbued with the divine indifference of the Hindu gods and the unearthly radiance of compassionate Buddhist saviors. In this, he saw one of the fundamental ingredients of the inexhaustible strength of American civilization. The epic of geology—the precipices of the Grand Canyon, their union of opposites—revealed to him the essential enigma of reality: the paradoxical harmony of antagonistic principles forming one whole.
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⁷ Address to the Analytical Psychology Club of the City of New York in Two Papers, pp. 23 ff.
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It seemed that in the new world he would find the strength to make a new contribution; a future full of promise seemed to lie ahead of him. When I heard that he had suddenly died, I felt, as all his friends will have felt: it could not be true; he could not be dead. For he was fullness of life itself, unable to rest, destined to carry on forever. Surely for him death can be but a twinkle of eternity.